


never a wish better than this

by spiralpegasus



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (all of these are nongraphic and offscreen), (minor and nongraphic), 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Car Accidents, Fluff, Holidays, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Permanent Injury of a Minor Character, Suicidal Thoughts, Sylvix Advent Calendar (Fire Emblem), Underage Drinking, the tags make this sound awful but it's sap with mild angst and hurt/comfort i promise, very minor background dimidue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27927625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiralpegasus/pseuds/spiralpegasus
Summary: “Felix,” Sylvain says, and there’s a bubbling well of thoughts and feelings he wants to spill over at Felix’s feet – love, and adoration, and resignation, and a helpless relief that Felix is too stubborn to let Sylvain break what they have.Felix is still half-leaning over Sylvain, hands flat on the bedspread on either side of his shoulders. “Yeah?” he says, his lips parting around the word.Sylvain’s thoughts coalesce into a single phrase –I want to kiss him.Winter holidays, traditionally, are a time for family. For closeness. For finding joy in the bonds between people. The bond between Sylvain and Felix carries them through both the happiness and the hardship of their winters together.Or, five times Sylvain gives Felix a Saturnalia kiss, one time Felix returns the favor, and all the moments that come between.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 18
Kudos: 220
Collections: Sylvix Advent Calendar





	never a wish better than this

**Author's Note:**

> happy holidays if you celebrate a winter holiday, and happy winter months (summer if you're below the equator) if not! many thanks to cha for organizing this super cute event - i'm so happy to be able to participate and hopefully bring a bit of mushy holiday cheer to whoever reads this!
> 
> a bit more detail on the tags - i mostly tagged everything out of an abundance of caution; imo, nothing is very graphic, but what's nongraphic to me might be triggering for someone else. if you're worried, i've added more details about the tags in the end notes. i might be going overboard, but i'd rather be too cautious than not cautious enough! this fic is, above all, a sappy holiday fic about sylvain and felix, and any angst is quickly kissed better, but i want everyone to be safe.
> 
> title is from 100 years by five for fighting because i'm basic and sappy
> 
> thanks as always to my wonderful and beloved beta and soundboard ama @/outofturtle for sitting with me for many long hours on this fic!

* * *

**1.**

* * *

Sylvain has officially outgrown Saturnalia. 

That’s what his parents tell him, anyway. _“You’re ten whole years old now, Sylvain. Aren’t you too old for Saturnalia gifts?”_ He doesn’t argue with them – there’s no point in arguing with them, because he never wins anyway. Glenn is thirteen and still gets gifts from his family, but Sylvain doesn’t point that out. The only explanation he’ll get is that Glenn isn’t a Gautier. 

Sylvain’s parents click their tongues at how soft Rodrigue is with his children enough of the time already. Sylvain doesn’t need to make it any worse. 

At least the convivium in the neighborhood park isn’t something a person just _outgrows._ The gathering is the one thing Sylvain looks forward to every year for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that his family – and Miklan – never attend it. Sylvain gets to spend an entire evening with his friends, eating spiced fruit pies and sipping hot apple cider, without once worrying about his parents shaking their heads at his childishness or Miklan pouring his drink down his front. 

He’s here with the Fraldarius family this year. Last year it was the Daphnels, and the year before the Blaiddyds; his friends’ parents like to make sure he has a ride to and from the convivium, and they take it upon themselves to make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble while he’s there. Glenn’s supposed to be looking after Sylvain and Felix while Rodrigue drinks and laughs with Lambert, but he’s long since wandered off to spend time with his friends, leaving Sylvain in charge. 

“I wanna see the Lord of Misrule,” Felix says, tugging on Sylvain’s coat sleeve. 

Sylvain glances down at him with a smile. “Yeah?” 

“I already saw him,” Ingrid says through a mouthful of fruit pie. “He made my brother do ten jumping jacks for pulling my hair.” She grins, her mouth covered in crumbs. 

“I don’t think I should go too far from my father,” Dimitri says as he plucks nervously at the hem of his jacket. He glances over at Lambert and Rodrigue, who are a few paces away and bent so far over laughing at something that Sylvain’s worried they’re going to spill their mulled wine. 

Felix’s bottom lip starts to wobble at this perceived rejection, which makes Sylvain want to both laugh and sigh. 

“I’ll take you to see him,” Sylvain says before Felix can start to cry in earnest. 

“Are you sure?” Dimitri says worriedly. “Maybe we should find Glenn so he can take you.” 

Sylvain rolls his eyes. If he’s old enough to have outgrown Saturnalia, he’s old enough to look after Felix. “We’ll be fine, Dimitri.” He reaches down to take Felix’s little mittened hand in his own. “C’mon, Felix.” 

“Okay!” And just like that, Felix’s oncoming bad mood has vanished, replaced by a rosy-cheeked grin that squeezes Sylvain’s heart every time he sees it. 

A man from the neighborhood named Alois is this convivium’s Lord of Misrule, if Sylvain remembers correctly. He’s tall and friendly with a love for children; if he was anything else, Sylvain would have gently nudged Felix into finding something else to do. Last year’s Lord of Misrule was a mess – the things she dared people to do were mean, not funny. Sylvain might be too old for Saturnalia, but he wants Felix to enjoy the holiday like a kid is meant to. 

The Lord of Misrule is easy to identify. They traditionally dress in bright colors and wear a spectacularly ugly hat, and Alois is nothing if not traditional in this respect. Sylvain leads Felix up to a red-faced, laughing Alois, whose whole face lights up when he sees Felix eyeing him with shy wonder. 

Sylvain watches with mute horror as Alois sweeps Felix off the ground in a single grand motion, holding him up with his hands under his armpits. 

“Little saint!” Alois booms. “What is it that you request for your Saturnalia offering?” 

Felix’s face scrunches up. Sylvain knows exactly what’s going to happen, but Alois has Felix far up out of Sylvain’s reach and Sylvain has no way to prevent it. 

Felix lets out an ear-splitting wail, which then descends into hysterical sobbing. 

The panic on Alois’s face is almost funny, though Sylvain can’t quite find it in him to laugh when Felix is clearly in so much distress. 

“You need to—” Sylvain tries. 

“It’s okay!” Alois is too busy yelling at Felix to hear Sylvain. “You’re alright, little one! There’s no need to cry!” 

The volume of his voice only makes Felix cry harder, which makes Alois panic more, which makes him even less likely to hear Sylvain’s words. It gets to the point where Sylvain thinks _Alois_ might start crying, too. 

“Alois, put the poor boy down,” an exasperated voice says. 

Sylvain blinks at the newcomer. He thinks this man’s name is… Jeralt? Sylvain remembers hearing about a man named Jeralt who moved to the neighborhood just this year with his wife and their twins, a boy and a girl. Sure enough, trailing behind Jeralt are two nearly-identical children who look just a little bit older than Sylvain. 

“Jeralt!” Alois exclaims. He seems to realize that holding Felix is not improving the situation at all, and he sheepishly lowers the wailing child to the ground. “I didn’t mean to upset him—” 

“I know you didn’t,” Jeralt says with a sigh. “You probably just startled him.” 

The moment Felix is back on the ground, Sylvain wraps a protective arm around his shoulders. “You should have asked before you picked him up,” Sylvain says accusingly to Alois. 

“I—I am aware,” Alois says awkwardly. “I’m sorry, little saint,” he adds to Felix, whose sobs have calmed to quiet crying in the safety of Sylvain’s embrace. 

Sylvain glares at Alois a moment longer. He seems appropriately sorry, but he still made Felix cry. Alois, rubbing the back of his head, offers another soft, sincere, “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Felix mumbles into his scarf. 

Jeralt pats Alois on the shoulder and directs him towards the two blank-faced children silently observing the interaction. Once Alois has moved out of earshot, Jeralt squats down beside Felix. “You alright, kiddo?” he asks quietly. 

“I wasn’t scared,” Felix lies, still sniffling. 

Sylvain finds a new appreciation for Jeralt when all Jeralt does is nod, like Felix’s cheeks aren’t bright red and damp with tears. 

“And does the mighty saint still want to tell me what he wants for Saturnalia?” Jeralt asks. His lips turn up fondly at their corners when Felix’s eyes brighten. 

“We-ell…” Felix tucks his chin into his scarf and rocks back and forth on his feet. 

“You should tell him, Felix,” Sylvain says when it becomes clear that Felix needs a little encouragement. Felix should at least get _something_ nice out of this whole mess. 

Felix nods, moving closer to Jeralt and leaning up onto his tiptoes to speak into Jeralt’s ear. “Glenn says,” Felix says, much more loudly than Sylvain expected. Felix seems to realize he’s not whispering, though, and drops his voice for the next part of his sentence, though he’s still not so quiet that Sylvain can’t hear him. “Glenn says people kiss each other when they love each other.” 

“Mmhm,” Jeralt says. 

“So…” Felix glances at Sylvain. Sylvain smiles at him encouragingly, pretending he can’t hear what Felix is saying; he doesn’t want to make Felix too self-conscious to continue, even if Sylvain has no idea where this is going. 

“So?” Jeralt prompts him. 

“I want a kiss from Sylvain,” Felix whispers loudly. 

Even if Sylvain didn’t hear it, he would have known Felix said something about him just from the way Jeralt sends him a wide-eyed glance. Sylvain stares back at him, mouth agape. He thought Felix would ask for—for a Gameboy, or a neat sword, or some other thing an eight-year-old likes. 

But evidently, what Felix likes most is Sylvain. 

(In Sylvain’s heart, two feelings war with one another – joy and disbelief. _He loves me. Why does he love me? There’s nothing to love about me.)_

“I love Sylvain the most,” Felix tells Jeralt, very matter-of-factly, in his not-a-whisper. “So I want a kiss from him.” 

“I see,” Jeralt says, tearing his eyes away from Sylvain to regard Felix fondly. “That’s a good wish.” 

Felix nods, suddenly shy. He pulls his scarf up to hide his face in it as he scurries back to Sylvain’s side. 

“What did you ask for?” Sylvain manages to say, trying to pretend he wasn’t listening. Thankfully, Felix is still ducked down into his scarf and doesn’t seem to notice how unconvincing Sylvain’s act is. 

“If I tell you,” Felix mumbles, “then Saint Macuil won’t give it to me.” But he’s eyeing Sylvain with bright, hopeful eyes over the edge of his scarf, his cheeks red from tears and cold and excitement. 

Sylvain knows Saint Macuil isn’t real. Miklan shattered that illusion when Sylvain was very small. But Felix still believes in the myth, so Sylvain smiles indulgently and ruffles Felix’s hair. 

Jeralt is still watching them, though he’s moved back over to Alois and the twins. There’s something soft in the way he regards them – some gentle emotion Sylvain isn’t used to seeing on an adult’s face. 

A half-baked plan forms in Sylvain’s mind. Even if Sylvain doesn’t understand it, what Felix asked for wasn’t a video game or a cool toy or a fancy sword; it was a kiss from his best friend. There isn’t a lot Sylvain has to offer Felix, but he can offer this. 

He tugs Felix’s scarf down to reveal Felix’s whole face – the flushed apples of his cheeks, the red tip of his nose, his little smiling lips. Sylvain heart beats faster, which is dumb. Felix is his best friend. Sylvain sees him smile all the time, and sees his face even more than that. Why would Sylvain be _nervous?_

Before his nerves can get the best of him, Sylvain leans in, clumsily pressing his lips to the tear tracks shining on Felix’s cheeks. 

Felix’s skin is warm and wet where Sylvain is kissing him. When Sylvain pulls back and darts his tongue out, he tastes salt. 

Felix is staring up at Sylvain with huge, round eyes, those little smiling lips now agape in an expression of shock. 

“I wanted to…” Sylvain fumbles with his fingers, suddenly self-conscious. “I wanted to kiss it better,” he says lamely. “You… you still looked like you were crying.” 

“Sylvain,” Felix says, his expression of shock morphing into a grin full of such unfettered joy that Sylvain can’t help but smile too. Felix flies forward to latch himself onto Sylvain, arms encircling him and squeezing tight, tucking his face into the quilted down of Sylvain’s jacket as he giggles. Sylvain hugs him back, rocking him back and forth. 

“Felix? Felix, where’d you go?” Glenn’s voice rings out over the noise of the gathering. 

Sylvain turns in the direction of the sound and catches sight of Glenn hurrying across the packed snow, scanning the crowd. When Glenn spots Sylvain, he makes a beeline towards him, clearly assuming that even if Felix isn’t with Sylvain, Sylvain will have an idea of where to find him. 

Upon seeing Felix peering out from Sylvain’s embrace, Glenn visibly relaxes, jogging up to the pair of them. “You can’t just wander off like that,” he scolds as he approaches. “Dad would be so mad if he knew I lost you!” 

“You were the one who ran off to hang out with your friends,” Sylvain points out. 

Glenn rolls his eyes. He opens his mouth to reply, but when he stops in front of them and his eyes land on Felix’s red-rimmed eyes, he changes direction immediately. “Oh, no, Felix,” Glenn groans, stooping down to gather Felix into his arms and tug him away from Sylvain. “Why are you crying this time?” 

“I’m not crying!” Felix protests, though he wraps his little arms around Glenn to accept the hug anyway. “I was, but Sylvain kissed it better!” 

“Did he?” Glenn’s eyes flicker over to Sylvain, narrowed and thoughtful. 

Sylvain shifts his feet nervously, but whatever Glenn is looking for, he seems to find it in Sylvain’s face; Glenn pats Felix’s back one last time before shooing him back over to Sylvain’s side. 

Even though Glenn is back and Felix could easily cling to his brother instead of Sylvain, Felix slips his mittened hand into Sylvain’s and doesn’t let go. 

* * *

**2.**

* * *

The door ricochets against the wall. The keys clatter against the wood of the front hall table. The boots Felix kicks off skid across the entryway. The winter air follows him into the house, and when he slams the door shut behind him, the chill remains. 

After the cacophonous rush of the past few hours, the house is unbearably silent. 

It’s not peaceful. It feels like a graveyard. Like the inside of a tomb. 

Felix’s scream chokes off into a desperate sob. 

He doesn’t quite tumble to his knees, but his shoulder collides with the wall and it’s the only thing that keeps him standing. The pathetic noises he doesn’t manage to strangle fill the dead air of the empty house. 

(The quiet is oppressive, but the sounds at the hospital had been beyond endurance. This silence, he can endure. This silence, he can survive.) 

(If he closes his eyes, he sees the ventilator again. Hears the click and hiss. Every mechanical noise was a reminder of Glenn’s sole remaining tether to life.) 

If he’d spent another moment in that room, with that corpse playacting at life, he would have lost the last shreds of composure he’s been clinging to since he saw Glenn’s motionless body bleeding into the snow. 

The Daphnels had come by sometime during the indefinable hours after Glenn’s surgery. Ingrid’s hand clutched Felix’s tight enough that her knuckles were white and Felix swore his bones were creaking, but her grip felt like the only thing keeping Felix tethered to reality as he trembled at his brother’s bedside. 

(Young, the doctors called Glenn. Too young for such an injury. Too young to have his promising future taken from him. In a moment, the five-year gap between Glenn and Felix shifted from an unbridgeable gulf to a small leap; at eighteen, Glenn always seemed invincible, but now he doesn’t seem much bigger than Felix at all.) 

(Even if he survives this, he won’t survive it whole.) 

His father was disappointed in him when he insisted on leaving with the Daphnels. Felix saw it in the weary downturn of his lips, heard it in the quiet way he said, “Your brother needs you.” 

“He’s dying,” Felix had snapped, furious and grieving. “He doesn’t need me to watch him do it.” 

The chill Felix felt when his father’s eyes narrowed – it slides down his spine even now. He can still hear his father’s voice, tight with anger, telling him, “I’m glad your brother isn’t awake to hear you speak so selfishly. Perhaps I gave you too much credit, thinking you’d grown out of your little tantrums.” 

The silence that followed lingers around Felix, even in the isolation of the house. Like he can still hear Ingrid’s gasp beneath the steady click-hiss of the ventilator and the beep of the heart monitor. Like the world took a breath and held it, and held it, and holds it still. 

(Ingrid didn’t want to leave him alone. Her parents insisted that he just needed space, needed time. She watched him from the car as he walked to his front door, and he only felt her gaze leave the back of his neck when the Daphnels’ van turned the corner at the end of the street and vanished.) 

(The only acceptable way to grieve in Faerghus is alone. To Ingrid’s parents, leaving Felix by himself was leaving him with his dignity.) 

(Nothing about the way he cries and screams into this empty shell of a house, floors and tables littered with unhung Saturnalia decorations, is dignified.) 

He slides down the wall and into a heap on the floor; his eyes wander around the silhouettes of the house, shapes lit dimly by the Saturnalia lights they’ve placed in all the windows. 

Glenn was planning to finish decorating, tonight. 

He always complains about it – says he’s too old for this kind of thing, now. But the moment Rodrigue suggests keeping the decorations in their boxes this year and only putting up the window lights, Glenn grouses and puts up most of them himself, adjusting and readjusting streams of tinsel, snapping at Felix when a candle is too close to the edge of the table, lovingly displaying the truly haunting Saint Macuil doll Holst got him as a joke. 

Some stupid, irrational part of Felix wants to blame Dimitri. Glenn was walking Dimitri home from a visit to the Fraldarius house when the car lost control. If Dimitri is to be believed, Glenn even pushed him out of the way. If Dimitri hadn’t come over, Glenn wouldn’t have had to walk him home. If Dimitri hadn’t been there, Glenn wouldn’t have had to rescue him. If Dimitri hadn’t—If Dimitri— 

Felix lifts his hands to rub at his stinging eyes. It’s then that he notices the dark stains on the cuffs of his sweatshirt. 

(He’d run outside when he heard the tires shrieking and Dimitri calling for help. He’d dropped to his knees in the snow beside Glenn’s small, limp form. He’d put his hands on his brother’s shoulders as if to shake him awake.) 

(The blood splattered on his sleeves might be all he has left of Glenn, now.) 

Overwhelmed with a senseless, nameless terror, he rips the sweatshirt over his head and flings it away. 

The house is cold and he should find something else to warm himself, but he feels rooted. Isolated. The silent air pushes in on all sides, and he hugs his knees and presses his forehead to them. 

He isn’t sure how long he spends shivering in the quiet before he hears a knock on the door. 

There’s a single moment, both hopeful and fearful, in which he thinks his father has come home. But his father wouldn’t have knocked – he has his own keys, and he would just let himself in. Silent, Felix lifts his head to stare at the vague shape of the door at the end of the hallway. 

Another knock, and then the doorknob turns and the door cracks open. Felix forgot to lock it. 

“Felix?” a familiar voice calls into the darkness, and all the tension in him drops away. 

He doesn’t know what Sylvain’s doing here, or how he even got here. But Sylvain—he’s here. He came. Felix isn’t alone. 

“Felix, are you—oh, shit.” The door opens just enough to let a blessedly familiar shape slip inside. Sylvain shuts the door and flips the lock before hurrying down the hall to where Felix has collapsed. “Are you—” 

“Sylvain,” Felix rasps out. 

“Ingrid told me. Shit, Felix, have you been alone this whole time?” Sylvain kneels in front of him, prying at Felix’s death grip on his knees to hold his hands. 

It’s the most grounded Felix has felt in—however long it’s been since he sprinted out into the cold and saw his brother facedown in a bloody snowdrift. It would be nice if he could say it was the force of Sylvain’s worry for him, the fact that Sylvain came as soon as he heard to be by Felix’s side, that pulled him back down to earth, but. 

It’s that Sylvain’s hands are _freezing._

They’re clumsy and cold where he’s gripping Felix’s hands, and Felix wraps his fingers around them and can’t help but shudder. “Sylvain, your hands are cold,” he says dumbly. 

“Yeah, I—I walked here, my parents have the car, and I don’t exactly have a license anyway, so—” Sylvain fumbles with Felix’s hands. “I just—Ingrid said you were alone, and I couldn’t…” 

“You walked here,” Felix echoes. 

The more he returns to reality, the more he looks at Sylvain. The more he looks at Sylvain, the more he realizes what a mess his best friend is. 

Sylvain’s hair is limp and wet, a few stray snowflakes still clinging to it; his cheeks and nose are bright red with the cold. The jacket he’s wearing is ill-suited to the weather, a flimsy canvas thing better fit for the light chill of fall than the biting cold of a snowy winter night. On his feet are sneakers, not snow boots, and they’re leaving puddles on the entrance hall floor. He’s shivering. 

“You _walked_ here,” Felix repeats, with much more energy. “Sylvain, you could have frozen to death!” 

“What? No, I run hot,” Sylvain says absently. He’s still shivering even as he runs his cold hands up Felix’s bare arms in a gesture probably meant to be comforting. “I didn’t really… realize it was snowing before I left, but I was already out the door, so.” He shrugs, his eyes still scanning over Felix as if looking for injuries. 

A mile and a half, in the dark and the snow. It’s not much of a distance when the weather cooperates, but Felix doesn’t want to think about what it was like to trek it with inadequate winter clothing. 

He props himself up against the wall as he tries to regain his feet. He’s been sitting long enough that his body protests the movement. 

Sylvain reaches out to steady him, and Felix swats his hands away. “I’m getting you some dry clothes,” Felix says, glaring up at him. “Moron,” he adds for good measure. 

“Okay,” Sylvain says, soft, like he thinks he might break Felix with anything louder. 

“Get a towel from the bathroom,” Felix tells him over his shoulder as he heads for the stairs. His own clothes won’t fit Sylvain, but something of his father’s probably will. 

(Glenn’s clothes used to, but he stopped growing when he was fifteen and Sylvain quickly overtook him. Now Glenn is a good six inches shorter than Sylvain, and a great deal narrower.) 

(The thought of referring to Glenn in the past tense sends an icy stab through Felix’s chest. He pointedly doesn’t look at Glenn’s closed door as he heads for his father’s room.) 

When he gets back downstairs with a pair of his father’s sweatpants and a sleep shirt, Sylvain has turned a few of the lights on. The house feels… not comfortable, but significantly less cold and empty, especially with Sylvain standing in the living room trying to towel off his hair. 

“Thanks,” Sylvain says, a little sheepishly, as he accepts the clothes Felix shoves at him. “I, uh, didn’t really realize how cold I was.” 

“You’re an idiot,” Felix informs him. 

“That’s why I have you to look after me,” Sylvain says, muffled by the shirt he’s pulling over his head. 

_No,_ Felix thinks as he turns away to let Sylvain get changed. _You’re the one who takes care of me._ Sylvain plays at being careless, with no regard for anyone or anything, but he’s always the first one to drop everything when Felix or Ingrid or Dimitri need help. 

Sylvain vanishes into the basement, presumably to leave his wet clothes in the laundry room. As Sylvain thumps down the stairs, Felix curls up against the arm of the couch, drawing his knees up to his chest. The anxiety in his chest calms from a roaring wave to a gentle tide – still present, still inescapable, but manageable. Survivable, with Sylvain here to keep him from being swept away. 

The basement stairs creak as Sylvain ascends. The door clicks open, then shut. 

“Hey,” Sylvain says softly. 

Felix, resting his cheek on his knees, watches Sylvain cut back through the living room. “Hi,” he says, hoarse. 

“Do you want anything? I can make you some hot cocoa.” Sylvain stands near the couch, looking uncertain. Tentative, like somehow, in the moments he spent away from Felix, he became unsure of his welcome. 

Cheek dragging against his jeans as he shakes his head, Felix mumbles, “Just sit with me.” 

Sylvain obliges, but not before sliding the blanket off the back of the couch and tossing half of it over Felix’s shoulders. The warmth of the blanket and the heat radiating from Sylvain’s body make Felix realize just how cold he is. He presses his shoulder against the warm line of Sylvain’s and lets his best friend tuck the blanket around them both. 

In the quiet, intimate space between their bodies, in the cocoon of the blanket, the tide inside Felix settles almost entirely. Glenn might die, but at least Felix isn’t alone as he tries to cope with that reality. At least Sylvain is here, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, holding him. 

It’s the unwavering physical and emotional support of Sylvain’s body beside his that has Felix baring his wounds. 

“My dad called me selfish,” Felix whispers. “For leaving him.” 

Sylvain’s grip on his shoulders tightens. “You’re not,” he says, equally quiet but no less firm for it. “Of course you didn’t want to see Glenn like that.” 

“It was like he was dead,” Felix says, hunching forward. “Like all I was doing was… was waiting for the monitor to stop beeping.” 

“Your dad should have taken you home.” Sylvain rubs his thumb soothingly across Felix’s collarbone. “Dimitri’s with his dad. Ingrid’s with her family. It’s not like Glenn….” _Cares if he’s alone,_ is the thing Sylvain is kind enough to omit. “You shouldn’t have to be alone.” 

Felix leans into Sylvain’s grip and tucks his face into the hollow of Sylvain’s neck and shoulder. The shirt smells like his father, but the scent beneath it is all Sylvain, warm and alive, the winter air still clinging to him from his walk over. He closes his eyes, allowing himself to relax into Sylvain’s hold. 

“I’m not alone,” he says. The house is quiet, but it isn’t silent – Sylvain’s breath is a low, rhythmic comfort, his pulse thrumming against Felix’s ear. 

Sylvain’s soft laugh makes his shoulder shift under Felix’s ear. “No, I guess not.” 

“Can you.” Felix swallows. He feels small. Young, but not childish; Sylvain’s never made him feel anything but safe when he’s vulnerable. He clutches a handful of Sylvain’s shirt. “Can you… stay.” 

Sylvain shifts, and the next thing Felix feels is a long, lingering press against the top of his head. It takes him a moment to recognize Sylvain’s lips – an affectionate kiss, a promise to stay. 

“As long as you need me to,” Sylvain murmurs into his hair. 

He doesn’t say a word when Felix’s tears wet the collar of his shirt. He just holds Felix against his side and presses his cheek to Felix’s hair, warm and solid. 

Rodrigue doesn’t return that night. But Sylvain doesn’t leave, either. 

* * *

Two weeks. 

Two weeks of watching Glenn climb slowly back to consciousness. He becomes less and less confused as the days go by – remembers where he is and how he got there. The doctors evade less and less when Rodrigue asks them for a prognosis; “too early to tell” and “not out of the woods yet” become “going to survive” and “may regain mobility, given time and effort.” 

He’s lost most of the feeling below his waist, though the fact that he can feel anything at all is apparently “promising,” even though he can’t walk at all. His lack of significant brain injury is “nothing short of a miracle.” 

It’s a lot of people trying to convince Felix that Glenn is “lucky,” which is bullshit, because if Glenn were lucky, he would have never gotten hit by that car in the first place. “Lucky” isn’t having his entire future shattered by black ice and skidding tires. 

“So much for that athletic scholarship,” is the first thing he croaks out when he hears that he might never walk again. “Unless they get really cool about wheelchair soccer really fast.” 

(Felix and Rodrigue haven’t spoken much since their argument in Glenn’s hospital room, but they do agree that it’s not a very funny joke.) 

The Saturnalia festivity week has come and gone by the time the hospital clears Glenn for release. Sylvain’s been at Felix’s side near-constantly during Glenn’s hospital stay, so he’s there when Rodrigue suddenly claps his hands together and demands that they set up the house for a proper Saturnalia celebration. 

Since Rodrigue is picking Glenn up that afternoon, there isn’t a lot of time to make things look nice. It isn’t as though Felix or his father had any energy or motivation to decorate while Glenn was hospitalized; it was usually Glenn who spearheaded the efforts to make the house look festive, and it felt wrong to either dismantle the decorations or put more up without him there. 

The end result of their mad rush to prepare the house for Glenn’s return is somewhat haphazard, but it’s very heartfelt. Sylvain asks multiple times if he should leave before Glenn gets back, but Felix stubbornly clings to his hand and insists, to both Sylvain and Rodrigue, that he wants Sylvain here. 

(It wasn’t Rodrigue that held Felix while he cried when the doctors said Glenn might never walk again. It wasn’t Rodrigue who made Felix tea and brought him takeout when he couldn’t bear to spend the night in the hospital with his brother and his father. Rodrigue doesn’t get to tell Sylvain he doesn’t deserve to be here.) 

Glenn, to his credit, only makes fun of it a little bit when Rodrigue wheels him into the house that afternoon. He calls their attempts “pedestrian,” which makes Felix snort – they’re all the same decorations as usual, just not arranged to Glenn’s exacting specifications. He never thought he’d be so relieved to hear Glenn make a mockery of him. 

Felix and Rodrigue arrange Glenn on the couch, his useless legs spread across the cushions and tucked under the same fluffy plaid blanket Sylvain wrapped Felix in two weeks ago. Glenn doesn’t protest the fussing, not even when Rodrigue fluffs a pillow before sliding it between Glenn’s back and the arm of the couch, and that alone tells Felix how weary his brother is. 

The whole time, Sylvain’s been hovering the entranceway to the living room with that vulnerable uncertainty on his face that always makes something in Felix’s heart hurt. Before he can open his mouth to tell Sylvain to get in the room already, Glenn interrupts him, eyeing Sylvain warily. 

“Gautier,” Glenn says. “Heard you’ve been looking after Felix.” 

The look Sylvain gives Glenn is appraising. Shuttered. “Yes.” 

Felix glances between them, but whatever conversation they’re having, it doesn’t seem to be a verbal one. A few more tense seconds pass before they give each other a curt nod, and Sylvain moves into the living room proper. 

Glenn may be literally unable to move his legs to give Sylvain room on the couch, but the look he sends Sylvain says that he wouldn’t have done it even if he could. 

Even with the decorations strung around the room, all the candles flickering merrily on the mantle, the room has a solemn heaviness to it that makes Felix reluctant to speak. Rodrigue eases himself into his armchair, and the creak of the chair is the only noise that breaks the quiet of the room. 

“Oh, come _on._ Lighten up. I’m not dead,” Glenn finally gripes, clearly tired of the tense silence. “It’s Saturnalia, not my funeral.” 

For some reason, that’s what does Felix in. Maybe it’s the imagery the word _funeral_ put into his head. Maybe it’s the way Glenn rolls his eyes, like _they’re_ the ones acting crazy. Either way, Felix’s nose and eyes sting with tears, and he scrunches his face up to try to keep them contained. 

“Oh, no, Felix,” Glenn says despairingly. “Don’t cry.” 

It’s too late. Felix sinks his teeth into his wobbling lower lip. The tears are spilling down his cheeks and he can’t choke down a little sob. 

“Oh, come here, you big baby.” Despite the words, Glenn’s voice is gentle and fond. He reaches up to tug on Felix’s shirt, and Felix goes easily, collapsing into his brother’s arms. It’s nothing like the hugs Glenn usually gives him. It’s weak, and Felix can feel Glenn’s shoulders trembling with the effort of holding his arms up. But Glenn’s holding him. Glenn’s alive. 

Felix can _feel_ Sylvain trying to move away, trying to give the brothers space or some nonsense, which won’t do at all. He doesn’t lift himself from Glenn’s grip, but he flails a blind hand behind himself until he makes contact with Sylvain’s body. 

Sylvain huffs out a fond laugh and takes Felix’s hand in his own. 

* * *

**3.**

* * *

It’s the Gautier family’s first Saturnalia since Miklan. 

Sylvain still thinks it was kind of overkill for his parents to disown their eldest after everything happened. Miklan already suffered through countless court proceedings and a sentence so brutal that he’ll be gray before he sees the sun from anywhere but the inside of a prison courtyard. It isn’t as though Miklan was Sylvain’s favorite person in the world, and Sylvain was _categorically_ not Miklan’s, but there’s—well, there’s still some part of Sylvain that wants to believe their shared blood meant something. _Means_ something. 

Call him sentimental. Call him stupid. He’s called himself both those things and worse. But even if his life is better without Miklan in it, strangely, it’s also emptier. 

“Did either of you give Miklan a call?” he asks his parents politely over the first morning of Saturnalia. 

The look they exchange is an inscrutable one. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart,” his mother says with false cheer. “The only family that matters is sitting at this table right now.” 

It’s the most Gautier non-answer she could have given. It’s an easy thing to grasp logically – they never loved Miklan, and the love they have for Sylvain is similarly conditional. But the pathetic child in him that’s somehow survived eighteen years of living still can’t quite wrap its tiny, miserable hands around the concept. _Miklan’s their son. I’m their son. They should love us – he should love me – they should love me._

Childish thoughts. Selfish ones. No one owes a child of Gautier love. What lives in them is in the blood, is something they’re born with – there’s something broken in them from the start, and it makes them unloving, unlovable. It’s something he should be resigned to. Something he should have learned by now. 

But there’s a flickering candle of hope inside him, one that Felix and Dimitri and Ingrid have cupped their tender hands around to shelter from the wind. It’s burned him more often than it’s warmed him, but he’s kept it alive all the same. 

It’s that spluttering light that leads him to the decision he makes next. 

Regardless of Miklan’s feelings about him, or his own feelings about Miklan, the image of Miklan alone in his cell for the entire holiday makes Sylvain’s gut churn. He has no illusions about his relationship with his brother, but—it’ll make Miklan feel better to have _someone_ wish him a happy Saturnalia, right? Even if that person is Sylvain? Sylvain is eighteen now; he doesn’t need his parents with him to visit. He doesn’t think the prison will allow Sylvain to bring him a gift or anything, and he’s honestly not inclined to buy one for Miklan besides, but… a visit is better than being completely forgotten. Sylvain can spare a Saturnalia afternoon for that. 

* * *

(He doesn’t know why he expected it to go any differently than it did.) 

* * *

Sylvain doesn’t remember finishing his father’s whiskey. 

He doesn’t even remember how much was left in the bottle before he got his hands on it, honestly. He grabbed the first thing his hand touched in the cabinet when he stumbled back into the house from his visit. The yawning emptiness in him clamored to be filled, and he’d been so desperate to feel anything but hollowed out and rotten that he’d just dumped liquor into it. 

A lot of liquor. Perhaps too much liquor. 

Oh, well. It’s just another thing he and Miklan have in common. No sense of moderation. 

The room is dark, the window open. The winter air is sharp and cold against his flushed cheeks. He’s on the floor, hand clenched so tightly around the neck of the bottle that it almost hurts to loosen his grip. His phone is beside him, screen black. 

When he taps his phone to check the time, it greets him with a list of unread messages. He swipes the one at the most recent one, timestamped for about two hours ago, and fumbles to enter his passcode. Felix’s contact name blinks into view at the top of the screen. 

**Felix:** hey  
**Felix:** you havent texted me all day dipshit  
**Felix:** say something 

Sylvain squints at the screen. He thinks this is Felix trying to be… friendly? Social, at the very least. For… some reason. His phone buzzes in his hand as new messages come in below the other three. 

**Felix:** it’s been hours i know you’re not ignoring me on purpose  
**Felix:** something happened  
**Felix:** what was it 

Without meaning to, Sylvain huffs out a laugh. Is he really that predictable? He can’t even count the number of girls he’s left on read just for fun, but he always responds to his friends. Always responds to Felix. Stupid. Selfish. _People are a game to you, aren’t they, princess? You like to see how far you can take it. See how long til they figure out how rotten you are behind that stupid smile of yours._ His fingers are moving before he can think about what he’s typing. 

**Sylvain:** Maybe I just don’t want to talk to you 

The reply is nearly immediate. 

**Felix:** bullshit 

Sylvain scrubs a hand over his eyes. He really _is_ predictable. 

**Felix:** you’re acting like an asshole because you’re upset  
**Felix:** just talk to me 

The thing is, part of Sylvain _wants_ to, no matter how selfish that part of him is. These are burdens he promised his friends would never have to carry. Not even Felix. _Especially_ not Felix. 

**Sylvain:** not a chance  
**Sylvain:** some things need to be taken to the grave  
**Sylvain:** grave might be sooner rather than later if I have any say in it  


He bites his lip when the dots don’t appear at the bottom of the screen. His filter’s always shot when he gets this drunk. He shouldn’t have made that joke. (He’s not even sure it’s a joke anymore.) He’s going to freak Felix out. (He wants Felix to worry. Wants someone to care if he dies.) 

**Sylvain:** lmao 

It doesn’t soften the morbid humor as much as he hoped it would. 

**Felix:** sylvain, don’t do that  
**Felix:** look i know family stuff is hard  
**Felix:** if you want to talk about it, i want to listen 

The offer warms Sylvain before an ice-cold horror washes through his veins. Because that’s… that’s all he wants. To dial Felix’s number. To listen to his voice. To hear him say it’s okay, that Sylvain tried, that he deserves better than what his brother said to him. 

None of it is true. But Felix believes it is. 

The sheer magnitude of the lies he’s woven chokes the air from his lungs. The mask he’s crafted to conceal the sheer ugliness inside of him is so beautiful, so perfect, that he’s even had himself convinced of it – that maybe, just maybe, if he tried hard enough, there would be something in him worth loving. But Miklan’s known him since birth. Miklan knows the truth. 

And Sylvain can’t keep lying. Can’t keep dragging Felix down with him when the only thing Sylvain will ever cause him is pain. The thorn of envy that digs in deeper every time he sees how gently Glenn handles Felix, every time he sees Rodrigue’s clumsy but earnest attempts to connect with his children – it’s proof of how ugly Sylvain is on the inside, that he’s so jealous he’s sick with it, that he can’t just be happy Felix has all the things Sylvain will never deserve. 

(It’s this disgusting part of him, soft and vulnerable with rot, that he digs into when he types his response to Felix. He’ll make Felix see the twisted insides of the person he thinks he loves.) 

**Sylvain:** Don’t make me laugh  
**Sylvain:** with your perfect family  
**Sylvain:** your perfect fucking brother 

The dots appear at the bottom of the screen. Sylvain can’t look at Felix’s response – doesn’t want to open his eyes as he takes a hatchet to the one thing that matters more to him than anything in the world. 

**Sylvain:** what would you know? what do you even care?  
**Sylvain:** just stop pretending you give a shit when your life’s so perfect already 

He can still stop. This isn’t so bad. He can apologize for this and Felix will forgive him. He doesn’t have to… doesn’t have to… 

Miklan’s face sneers at him. _I almost pity you, whelp._

**Sylvain:** you act so miserable all the time I can’t help but pity you 

_You spoiled, ungrateful little shit. You get everything handed to you, but you cry and cry like it’s not enough for you._

**Sylvain:** but I’m done pretending you’re not a spoiled, ungrateful brat 

_Get out of my sight. I don’t want to see your miserable face here again._

**Sylvain:** just leave me alone 

He flings the phone across the room. It lands with little fanfare on the edge of his bed, a breath away from tumbling to the floor. 

That little candle in him. That senseless hope, doomed from the moment he breathed it to life. He’s finally snuffed it out. 

It’s quiet inside him, now. A ghastly, tomblike void. With all the carelessness and efficiency of sliding old food off a plate, he’s scraped his insides raw to remove the emotion from them. All the hurt, all the hope. All the heartbreak. 

The phone keeps buzzing, so frequently and violently that it tumbles that last precarious inch off the bed and clatters onto the hardwood. Sylvain watches it, apathetic. The glow of the screen dims and relights, dims and relights. Felix won’t stop calling. 

He’ll give up, eventually. 

Sylvain closes his eyes as the buzzing starts up again. 

_You don’t want to_ be _good. You want to_ feel _good. Do your friends know you’re just using them to get your egotistical little rocks off? Does Felix?_

He knows now. Felix will give up, eventually, and it’s for the best. It’s what Sylvain wants. 

He’s probably only calling to tear Sylvain a new one for what Sylvain said to him, anyway. It’s nothing Sylvain hasn’t heard before, but he thinks it would shatter him entirely if it was Felix saying it to him. 

(Every day, Sylvain becomes more like his brother. More like Miklan. The tired, angry shell Sylvain saw behind the prison glass today is a grim snapshot of Sylvain’s future, too. Felix shouldn’t be around to see it. Sylvain won’t let him.) 

It takes a few minutes, but the phone goes dark, and it stays dark. The room is silent. Sylvain slumps against the wall at the hollow relief of it. 

It worked. He’s given up. 

Sylvain closes his eyes and thumps the back of his head against the wall. It won’t be quiet long – Felix will go to Ingrid and Dimitri, and they’ll probably come banging on Sylvain’s door demanding an explanation. But for now, Sylvain is sitting in a dark, silent grave of his own making, wondering if he’s finally managed to shatter beyond repair his relationship with the person he loves more than anything. 

It’s what he wants. What he needs to do. 

His eyes drift open to trace the silhouetted outlines of the objects in his room. The liquor is a sickly warm weight in the base of his abdomen. He imagines it sinking into him, seeping in through his guts to join the rest of the poison in his blood. Maybe when he falls asleep, it will finally end his charade of a life. 

When a rock flies through the window, it’s so absurd, so utterly irreconcilable with every other aspect of Sylvain’s reality, that Sylvain briefly wonders if he actually _has_ managed to kill himself with whiskey. 

“Shit,” a faint voice comes from somewhere outside. 

_The Goddess has a mouth on her,_ Sylvain thinks, before his rational thought blunders out of the alcohol swamp he’s made of his brain. He recognizes that voice, though he does have to stumble over the brief thought that the Goddess sounds exactly like Felix before he lands on the realization that Felix is _outside his window._

“Felix?” he mutters into the dark. 

Felix, predictably, does not hear him, as he is outside throwing rocks at Sylvain’s house. 

Sylvain should… do something. Get up. Go to the window, either to greet Felix or to make it clear he’s not welcome by shutting it. But he feels rooted to the spot as he stares at the innocuous shape of the rock on his bedroom floor. 

There’s rustling outside. A few more muffled curses. The noises don’t make any sense until movement in the window frame startles Sylvain into looking back at it. 

Felix, dusted with snow, eyes gleaming angrily in the dim light from outside, stands with one foot on the sill and one foot braced on the tree outside Sylvain’s window. 

“Sylvain, you’re okay,” Felix breathes, sounding like he’s stuck somewhere between relief and fury. “I thought…” 

“You’re here,” Sylvain says stupidly. He’d heard Felix’s voice, known intellectually that Felix was outside, but he’s—he’s really here. The faint light makes it hard to make out his features, but he’s here, his hair twisted up into a tangled bun, his too-long pajama pants jammed into a pair of work boots. Sylvain thinks he recognizes one of Dimitri’s hoodies, hanging halfway down Felix’s thighs. 

Felix clambers the rest of the way through the window and tumbles onto his knees in front of Sylvain. Sylvain can see the gears turning in Felix’s head as Felix takes in the scene before him – the bottle on the floor, the phone across the room. The complete and utter mess Sylvain’s made of himself. 

And somehow. Somehow. He doesn’t leave. 

People have left Sylvain for less. Left him even when he was at his fakest and most perfect. But Felix looks at the wreckage of him, and he stays. 

“How did you even get here so quickly?” Sylvain asks. Well, it _felt_ quick, anyway. For all Sylvain knows, it’s been hours. But Felix’s cheeks darken, noticeably enough that Sylvain can tell he’s blushing even in the dim light of the room. 

“I took my dad’s car,” Felix says. “Glenn distracted him for me so I could steal the keys.” 

“Felix,” Sylvain says, and that’s all he says, utterly lost for words. 

“Look, I—” Felix sits back on his heels and crosses his arms. “You weren’t making sense. And then you wouldn’t answer the phone. I had to make sure—” He cuts himself off abruptly, but Sylvain hears the unspoken worry. Unspoken, but not unfounded. 

“That’s illegal,” Sylvain says faintly, unable to process anything beyond Felix stealing his father’s car when he doesn’t even have a license yet. Morbidly curious, Sylvain hauls himself up, steadies his swaying body, and stumbles to the window. 

The scene outside certainly paints a picture, and not a graceful one. A set of tire tracks skid haphazardly through the light dusting of snow on the driveway. Whole swathes of the short, carefully manicured shrubbery trimming the lawn have been flattened. Felix did manage to park the car on the driveway itself and not the lawn or the surrounding gardens, but it’s crooked and clumsy and came within inches of contact with the house itself. 

Sylvain stares. This couldn’t have been _quiet._ He didn’t hear a minute of it. He must be drunker than he thought. 

“I got here, didn’t I?” Felix snaps defensively. 

He did. He did get here. For all of Sylvain’s words and weapons, he couldn’t keep Felix from worrying about him, from loving him, from stealing a goddamn car and driving here in the dead of night to scramble up the tree outside his window just to make sure he’s okay. 

Inexplicably, Sylvain’s eyes well with tears. 

“Why did you…” He trails off. _Why did you come? Why do you care? Of all the people in the world to love, why me?_

“I was worried about you, you idiot.” A rustle of movement, a few quiet footsteps, and then Felix wraps an arm around his shoulders and tugs him away from the biting winter air of the open window. “I’m still pissed about what you said to me, but I won’t just _leave_ you.” 

Sylvain laughs hollowly. “You should.” He’s too raw to lie to himself and say that it’s what he wants, but it’s certainly what he deserves. 

Felix manhandles him into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. “Don’t tell me what to do.” 

It startles a weak laugh out of Sylvain. “I don’t think I could even if I tried,” he says, and the truth of it sinks into him with both relief and resignation. Felix is too stubborn to let him go, no matter how much Sylvain pries at his fingers and begs him to leave. 

Felix pats his shoulder once before turning back to the window. A wounded noise escapes Sylvain’s throat, and despite his words just seconds prior, the protest slips from him before he can even think to stop it. “Felix, don’t—” 

“What did I just say? I’m not leaving,” Felix says, somewhat testily. Like Sylvain is stupid for thinking Felix would leave. Like it’s the last thing on Felix’s mind. “I’m just shutting the damn window.” 

He pulls the window down and flips the lock at the bottom. The chill from outside lingers, but Sylvain feels oddly warm as Felix turns back around. 

“Sylvain—” Felix opens his mouth as if to say something more, but his eyes flicker away from Sylvain’s like they always do when he’s embarrassed. “…Let’s just get you to bed, okay? I’ll stay with you.” 

“Felix, I’m,” Sylvain starts, his voice tight. The tears from earlier still haven’t quite left him, though they haven’t spilled over either. The apology gets stuck in his throat, but he can force at least some of the words out. “You’re… you’re not spoiled. Or ungrateful.” 

Felix nods shallowly. “It’s…” _okay,_ he doesn’t say, and Sylvain hears the absence of the word as loudly as if Felix had said it. “You were drunk.” 

“No, that’s—” Sylvain scrubs a hand down his face. “I’m still drunk,” he says, and that’s not what he meant to say, but it popped into his head and out it came. He shakes his head, frustrated. “But it’s not an excuse. I shouldn’t have…” 

“I know,” Felix says quietly. It’s soft, resigned. Like he knows all he can expect from Sylvain are these pathetic half-apologies. 

And somehow, that’s what unsticks the lump in Sylvain’s throat, enough for him to cry and enough for him to apologize. “I’m so sorry,” he gasps as the tears spill over. He jams the heel of his hand into his eye in a futile attempt to contain them. “I—I didn’t—I didn’t mean—” 

Rapid footsteps approach the bedside, and Felix is there, tugging Sylvain against his body, rough and clumsy. It plants Sylvain’s face directly into Felix’s abdomen, but Sylvain is so desperate for touch, for comfort, that the awkward position doesn’t even occur to him as he bundles his arms around Felix’s waist and hugs him back. 

“I know,” Felix says, much more gently, his grip on Sylvain’s shoulders and head awkward but earnest. “I’m pissed, but I know. We’ll talk about it in the morning.” 

“You’ll stay?” Sylvain asks, small, muffled by the soft folds of Felix’s stolen hoodie. It smells pleasantly of Dimitri’s detergent, of Felix’s house, of Felix himself. 

“Of course I’ll stay.” Felix nudges him back to look at him, though he doesn’t protest when Sylvain still clings to his sweatshirt. His eyes are wet in the faint light from the closed window. 

“Don’t cry,” Sylvain whispers. 

Felix shakes his head. “I’m not,” he says, wobbly in a way that betrays the lie. “You talked to Miklan, didn’t you?” 

There’s no point in hiding it. There’s nothing in the world that undoes Sylvain quite as thoroughly, quite as violently, as Miklan does. 

“Look, just… get some sleep,” Felix says, using his grip on Sylvain to maneuver him up the bed. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

He helps Sylvain wrestle with the blankets. When Sylvain finally manages to crawl beneath them, Felix smooths them around Sylvain’s shoulders, tucking him in. It’s such a pointless gesture, and such an affectionate one, that Sylvain feels entirely wrongfooted. Even his parents don’t bother to offer him these small, silly kindnesses. 

“Felix,” Sylvain says, and there’s a bubbling well of thoughts and feelings he wants to spill over at Felix’s feet – love, and adoration, and resignation, and a helpless relief that Felix is too stubborn to let Sylvain break what they have. 

Felix is still half-leaning over Sylvain, hands flat on the bedspread on either side of his shoulders. “Yeah?” he says, his lips parting around the word. 

Sylvain’s thoughts coalesce into a single phrase – _I want to kiss him._ There are a million reasons why it’s a horrible idea, and he’s just sober enough to listen to at least some of them. Wriggling a hand out from under the sheets, Sylvain grasps the loose collar of Felix’s sweatshirt and tugs him down so their faces are almost touching. 

“Felix,” he says again, and he has just enough presence of mind to kiss Felix’s cheek instead of his lips. “Thank you.” 

* * *

**4.**

* * *

When Sylvain admits that he still has no idea how to ice skate, part of Felix is relievedthat there’s something he’s actually bad at. Infuriatingly, Sylvain is the kind of person who’s good at almost everything he tries, which makes it even more frustrating that he rarely if ever sticks with any one thing long enough to master it. Felix knows he can safely claim several things he’s betterat than Sylvain, but they’re also all things Sylvain can do at the very least decently without nearly as much practice. 

So yes, a petty part of Felix does take a certain amount of satisfaction when he witnesses that Sylvain not only has no idea how to skate, he’s also hilariously bad at it when he tries. 

“This is cruel,” Sylvain says, flat on his ass after yet another spectacular fall on the ice. “You’re cruel. Stop laughing.” 

Everyone is laughing at least a little, ranging from Annette’s gleeful howls to Dimitri’s reserved chuckles. Dedue is the only one who seems to be restraining himself, though Felix catches a hint of a smile before he hides it behind his palm. 

“I’m not laughing,” Dimitri lies valiantly. Dedue’s eyes crinkle with a smile Felix can’t see. 

“You’re overbalancing,” Ashe says, very kindly despite his grin. “You have to drop your center of gravity or you’ll tip over.” 

Sylvain frowns at him so pathetically that even Felix feels a little tug on his heart. “I’m _trying.”_

“Here,” Felix says abruptly, offering a hand to Sylvain to help him up. “You’re clearly getting nowhere stumbling around on your own. You’re like a baby horse.” 

“A foal,” Sylvain corrects absently as he clasps his hand in Felix’s. 

There’s a part of Felix that wants to drop Sylvain for that on principle alone, but the rest of him is hyper-focused on the firm weight of Sylvain’s hand in his. They’re both wearing gloves. Logically, Felix knows he’s probably imagining the warmth from Sylvain’s skin. It doesn’t stop his heart from thudding against his chest, piteously smitten, at the warm grasp of Sylvain’s fingers around his. 

The lake they’re skating on is large enough that everyone, theoretically, _could_ spread out and offer Sylvain a bit of dignity as he clings to Felix and wobbles along at a crawl. They do not. 

“You’re the epitome of grace,” Mercedes says peacefully, her hands clasped behind her back as she skates along beside Sylvain and Felix. Ingrid snorts. 

Dimitri, arm linked with Dedue’s, tries to offer encouragement. “You’re improving,” is the best he can come up with, because he can’t lie well enough to say that Sylvain is doing well. 

“Drop your—” Ashe starts. 

“Center of gravity, I know, I know,” Sylvain grouses. His grip on Felix’s hands is almost tight enough to be painful. His legs are trembling with the effort of staying upright. 

Felix tugs on Sylvain’s hands when he starts leaning backwards again. “If you know, then try doing it.” 

“Everyone’s a critic,” Sylvain says. His eyes never leave his feet, like staring at his skates will help him keep his balance. “Annette, you’re laughing a lot for someone who’s fallen just as much as I have.” 

“Hey,” Annette protests. Her mock offense descends into a fresh fit of giggles at Sylvain tips, overcorrects, and only stays upright because of Felix’s grip on him. 

“Your stance is a mess,” Felix tells him. “Straighten your ankles.” 

To Sylvain’s credit, he’s clearly trying. His brows are furrowed as he visibly tightens his ankles and bends his knees. He’s still too nervous to place enough of his weight forward, though, and Felix has to pull at their linked hands again to keep him from tumbling backwards. 

“You have to lean forward more,” Felix says. He’s sure if it were anyone else, he’d be getting impatient with them; as it is, he’s privately enjoying the feeling of Sylvain clinging to his hands, even if he’s embarrassed to admit it to himself. 

“I feel like I’m gonna fall,” Sylvain protests. 

“Well, you’re _actually_ falling when you don’t.” Felix shoots him a teasing grin. “What, afraid I won’t catch you?” 

“That’s—” Sylvain snaps his mouth shut mid-sentence. His cheeks almost look like they’re darkening, but Felix shakes off the thought as wishful thinking; it’s chilly enough that Sylvain’s probably just red from the cold. 

“See, Sylvain,” Ingrid says as she glides in a neat circle around the pair of them. “This is what it’s like to be bad at something.” 

“I hate it,” Sylvain says plainly. Still, even though his smile is a sheepish one, he doesn’t look angry or embarrassed. A little grumpy, sure, but Felix has seen what humiliation looks like on his face, and it isn’t this. 

“It took me ages to get my balance on the ice as a kid,” Ashe says sympathetically. 

“I never went skating as a kid,” Sylvain says. “Never looked like much fun to me.” 

Felix squeezes Sylvain’s hands. When they were young, Sylvain would always sit on the shore and wait for Ingrid, Dimitri, Felix, and Glenn to get bored of skating in circles; he always claimed he was too lazy to learn. Now that Felix is older, he’s pieced together that Sylvain wasn’t lazy but _scared._ There’s a pond on the Gautier property that Sylvain always refused to go near. Sylvain has never told Felix the story, but Felix is sure there was an “accident” involving Miklan that made Sylvain reluctant to learn how to skate properly. 

“It is the sort of thing that comes more easily if you learned as a child,” Dedue says. “But not impossible to learn later in life.” He doesn’t comment on how strange it is that someone born and raised in Faerghus never learned, even though his three childhood friends did. Felix sends him a grateful look. 

“I’m glad you agreed to accompany us today, Sylvain,” Dimitri says, ever earnest. “We all appreciate your company.” 

“Even if you suck at ice skating,” Annette says cheerfully as she twirls around on one skate to look back at Sylvain. She promptly loses her balance with a shriek, pinwheeling her arms until Mercedes catches her bicep and rights her. 

Mercedes laughs. “Glass houses, Annie.” 

“I think he’s getting better,” Ashe offers – perhaps too charitably, considering Sylvain hasn’t released his death grip on Felix’s hands. 

“If I am, it’s because of Felix. You’ve been so patient with me, professor,” Sylvain says to Felix, his eyes bright and teasing. “How can I ever thank you?” 

“I don’t think you need to thank me,” Felix says dryly. “Considering you haven’t improved at all.” 

Sylvain’s hands tighten on his, and his smile widens. It’s one of his genuine ones – the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes his whole face light up. The kind that makes Felix absolutely stupid with how in love he is with this insufferable fool. 

This distraction is a fatal mistake that contributes to the disaster that occurs next. 

Sylvain’s eyes flicker down to Felix’s lips. His voice is low and flirty when he says, “I have an idea of how to show my gratitude.” He leans in— 

—and promptly overbalances both of them, sending them toppling backwards in an ungraceful tangle of limbs. 

Felix shrieks, his hands grabbing clumsily at the front of Sylvain’s jacket as they plummet towards the ice. If he hadn’t been so distracted by Sylvain’s damn smile, he could have caught his balance, but _no._ Here he is, tumbling backwards, about to split his head open like a watermelon. 

When he hits the ground, two things happen at once. 

One, he _doesn’t_ crack his skull open on the ice – Sylvain has a hand cradled around the back of his head, cushioning the impact. 

Two, Sylvain’s lips crash into his. 

It’s absolutely not what he imagined his first kiss would be like. It’s painful and clumsy and very, very unintentional. Their teeth clack together, and Felix tastes blood. It’s over as quickly as it starts, Sylvain wrenching backwards the moment he has leverage to do so. 

Felix lies on his back, stunned. One of Sylvain’s hands is still curled around the back of Felix’s head, protecting it; the other is planted on the ice beside Felix’s face. Their noses are inches apart, the foggy clouds of their breath mingling. Their legs are a tangled mess from the fall. 

Without meaning to, Felix lets his eyes slide down to Sylvain’s lips. 

There’s a little smear of blood there from their ill-fated kiss. Unconsciously, Felix wets his own lips with his tongue; at the movement, Sylvain glances down too, his eyes darkening as he stares at Felix’s mouth. For a tense, anticipatory heartbeat, Felix wonders if he’s going to kiss him again. 

“Are you okay?!” Annette’s frantic voice shatters the moment. “You didn’t hit your head, did you?” 

“I—” Felix’s voice cracks. His throat is dry. He can’t seem to tear his gaze away from that smear of red at the corner of Sylvain’s mouth. 

“We’re fine, Annette,” Sylvain says. His eyes flicker up to Felix’s, then back down to his lips, and then fully away as he slides his hand out from under Felix’s head. 

“Felix has too thick of a skull for it to break that easily,” Ingrid says. Felix can hear the roll of her eyes in her tone, though he can also hear the undercurrent of concern. 

“Sylvain caught my head,” Felix manages to say. He realizes, distantly, that he’s still clinging to the front of Sylvain’s jacket. He pries his fingers from it and props himself up on his elbows, clearing his throat. “I’m fine.” 

“Saved his life,” Sylvain says with a laugh. He carefully disentangles his legs from Felix’s, mindful of the blades, and wobbles to his feet with Ingrid’s help. 

Annette hooks her hands under Felix’s armpits and hauls him to his feet. As soon as Felix is standing, Ashe alights a hand on his shoulder and peers at the back of his head, as if inspecting it for injury. 

“You really ought to be more careful,” Mercedes scolds Sylvain, using her thumb to wipe away the little smudge of blood. “One of you could have gotten seriously hurt.” 

“It seems all that was wounded was their dignity,” Dedue says. There’s an amused glint in his eyes that Felix isn’t sure he likes. “That said, perhaps that is enough skating for today.” 

“I agree,” Dimitri says. “It will be dark soon, anyway.” 

The light is just starting to dim, but night is fast to fall before the winter solstice. Though it’s not a long walk back to Dimitri’s house from the pond, Annette and Ashe are both afraid of the dark, and no one wants to make them nervous by cutting their time outside too close to dusk. 

Felix rolls his eyes at Annette and Ashe’s hovering as he skates back to shore – it’s like they’ve forgotten that Sylvain caused the fall, not him. He glances over his shoulder to make sure someone is helping Sylvain get off the ice without further incident, and is relieved to see Mercedes and Ingrid holding an arm each, pulling him along. 

Everyone takes a seat in the snow to unlace their skates. Felix settles next to Sylvain, and out of the corner of his eye, he catches Sylvain flexing his fingers with a poorly hidden wince. 

It’s the hand that he put between Felix’s head and the ice. The impact wasn’t a gentle one – it must have hurt, even with Sylvain’s glove acting as a cushion. 

“Let me see your hand,” Felix says abruptly. He abandons his skate laces to grab Sylvain’s wrist. 

“Hey, careful, Felix, careful,” Sylvain hisses as Felix pulls his hand into his lap. 

“I’m _being_ careful,” Felix says crossly. “Let me look at it.” 

Felix cradles Sylvain’s hand in his own as he peels the glove off. Sylvain’s knuckles are scuffed and bloody, red in a way that foretells a bruise. 

The image of lifting Sylvain’s hand up to kiss the bruises drifts into Felix’s mind unbidden. It’s exactly the kind of dumb thing Sylvain would do, if Felix managed to bang himself up like this. Felix runs a gentle thumb across the torn skin. 

“You got hurt keeping me safe,” Felix says, more softly than he means to. 

It’s more dramatic than the situation calls for, certainly, but it’s the truth. Sylvain’s good sense and self-preservation always fly out the window for the people he loves, Felix especially. It makes something tender ache in the center of Felix’s chest. 

“I might die from this grave wound, actually,” Sylvain says with a grin. “You should take me to a hospital. You might have to carry me.” 

Felix scoffs even as he gently closes his hands over Sylvain’s. “Carry yourself to a hospital, you damn fool.” 

Sylvain lays his uninjured hand on his own chest, playfully wounded. “So cold!” 

“Oh, are you hurt?” Dimitri asks worriedly. “If you need a doctor—” 

“I’m fine, Dimitri,” Sylvain says, his mischievous grin softening into a genuine one that makes Felix’s heart thud against his ribs. “Just a little bruise. Nothing a bandaid and a kiss won’t fix.” 

“I am sure Felix will oblige,” Dedue says, though he’s looking at Felix and not Sylvain. He’s teasing, but the look on his face is a knowing one. 

“He wishes,” Felix says, and doesn’t add, _I also wish._ He could press his lips against Sylvain’s bloody knuckles, kiss his way up the back of his hand. He could lay Sylvain’s bare, warm palm against his cheek and lean in and kiss him on the lips – a proper kiss this time. 

He could, but he won’t. Even if the way Sylvain is looking at him makes him hope, somewhere in his traitorously fluttering heart, that Sylvain might want him to. 

Sylvain holds his gaze for a moment longer, their hands linked in Felix’s lap. He gives Felix’s fingers an affectionate squeeze before he slips his hand free to finish unlacing his skates. 

Once everyone has their boots back on, Dimitri opens his mouth to speak from his place tucked under Dedue’s arm. “I, ah… that is, if you do not have anything more important…” 

Dedue’s grip becomes firmer, drawing Dimitri into the warm space between his body and shoulder. Felix can _see_ the tension drain visibly from Dimitri’s body at the contact. Dimitri clears his throat, and when he continues speaking, it’s in a much less uncertain tone. “If any of you are free this evening, I would enjoy your company at my house.” 

“Are you propositioning us, Dimitri?” Sylvain teases. Before Dimitri can get too flustered, he adds, “Yeah, I’d love to hang out at your place. Felix?” He glances at Felix expectantly. 

“Sure, whatever,” Felix says, much more dismissively than he feels. In truth, it warms him to see Dimitri opening back up after his years of isolation following Glenn’s accident. 

Annette claps her hands together. “Ooh, we can make cocoa!” 

“Do you have marshmallows?” Ashe asks with big, hopeful eyes. “We can make cocoa with marshmallows!” 

“That sounds lovely,” Mercedes says. “Marshmallows or no.” 

“Pizza,” Ingrid blurts out. “We should order pizza.” 

“Meat lover’s pizza,” Felix says immediately. Ingrid nods, her eyes distant and dreamy. 

The group wanders back to Dimitri’s house, unhurried, discussing pizza toppings and whether or not they could pay the pizza guy extra to pick up some marshmallows for them on his way over. Felix, light with the cheerful atmosphere, allows himself the indulgence of linking his elbow with Sylvain’s as they walk. 

They don’t talk about the kiss. Not even to insist it was an accident. 

Felix watches the snow flutter down from a darkening sky and thinks about Sylvain’s lips on his. 

* * *

**5.**

* * *

“You know, Ricky,” Sylvain says to the wriggling menace of a cat in his hands, “there’s a lot of history here that you’re not appreciating.” 

Ricasso squeaks at him. As far as meows go, it’s a little pitiful. 

“Saint Macuil is an important figure with a lot of historical significance! His origins can be traced back centuries!” 

Ricasso’s tail twitches. It’s clearly a warning, but she doesn’t have her claws out yet, so Sylvain presses bravely on. 

“He was the patron saint of children,” Sylvain continues. “And of gift-giving. It’s said he would travel from town to town, turning into a gust of wind to slip into people’s houses and leave presents for the children that lived there.” 

Ricasso gives another halfhearted wiggle of protest. At this point, Sylvain thinks she’s just doing it to make her opinion known. 

“It was a folktale that was passed down mostly orally, so a lot of things got changed and embellished,” Sylvain says. “Now we have the big, jolly man in red with a big white beard. But the _point_ is that I’m putting you in a costume of a noble saint, so you really shouldn’t be this mad at me about it.” 

Ricasso glares up at him. The effect is ruined by the cute little Saint Macuil outfit Sylvain has wrestled her into. 

Sylvain regards her with an unexpected fondness. He can still remember when Felix first took her home – the angriest, most unadoptable cat at the shelter, a skinny black shadow with more claws and teeth than sense. Sylvain wasn’t living with Felix then, but with all the pictures and updates he received about Ricky, he may as well have been. 

She used to do nothing but glower at Felix from beneath the bed. Then she started creeping out for mealtimes. Then she would lurk in the doorway of whatever room Felix was in. The first time she perched on the arm of the couch while Felix was sitting on it, Sylvain received seven blurry photos of her with the single message “!!!” underneath them. 

(Sylvain feels something of a kinship with Ricky. Felix has a way with mistreated, mistrusting creatures – wary things that have spent their lives waiting for another blow, learning that Felix’s hands are gentle ones.) 

He doesn’t plan to leave her in the costume for long. If she’d objected too strongly, he wouldn’t have forced her into it at all. But he wants to surprise Felix with something silly and cute after the stressful pre-Saturnalia work week Felix has had. 

It’s their first holiday living together. Sylvain wants it to be a perfect one. 

Growing up, Sylvain never liked the holidays much. There was little to enjoy about them – a break from school, while an exciting prospect for most children his age, just meant uninterrupted time with his parents and Miklan. He spent as much time as he could at his friends’ houses, but he couldn’t avoid his family altogether. Saturnalia became more palatable after he moved out, though, and living with Felix means that he’s actually looking forward to the festival week now. A week off work, snowed in with his boyfriend, exchanging presents and kisses and spending lazy slept-in mornings together, sounds like a dream. 

So maybe he’s going a little overboard with the celebrating. Maybe he didn’t need to add an extra string of holiday lights to his online shopping cart. Maybe he didn’t need to buy an entire set of holiday-scented candles and line the bedroom windows with them. Maybe Ricasso didn’t need a Saturnalia costume. But Sylvain’s never had this much fun with the holiday before. 

He’s never been this _happy_ before. 

He thinks he could spend the rest of his life like this. Dressing Felix’s cat up in silly costumes, drowning their shared apartment in useless holiday paraphernalia. 

The sound of keys rattling against the door has both Sylvain and Ricasso perking up. Quickly, Sylvain scoops her up and brings her to the front door just as Felix pushes it open, still in his work clothes and covered in a light dusting of snow. 

“Io Saturnalia,” Sylvain says with a grin. He lifts Ricasso up and bonks her nose against Felix’s with an exaggerated smooching sound. 

Felix plucks Ricasso from Sylvain’s grip and scratches behind her ears as he nudges the door shut behind him. He turns to regard Sylvain, unimpressed. “Was this the package you got yesterday?” 

“Yes,” Sylvain says, unashamed. The nice thing about being in charge of decorating is that Felix stopped asking what was in every little box that showed up at their apartment, assuming the answer was “more Saturnalia things.” 

(It also means that the fancy antique sword he ordered for Felix went entirely unquestioned when it showed up at the door, despite the bizarre shape of the box. Sylvain can’t wait to see Felix’s face when he opens _that_ present.) 

“You’ve damaged her dignity,” Felix informs him. Ricasso, who is now purring and rubbing her face delightedly against Felix’s despite the silly beard she’s wearing, doesn’t seem to mind that much. 

“Hey, it’ll make for a good family picture for our Saturnalia postcard,” Sylvain says cheerfully. “We can put on matching ugly sweaters and put her in the middle like she’s our child.” 

Felix rolls his eyes fondly. “She does wear it well,” he allows. 

“We can take it off for now,” Sylvain says. “I mostly just wanted to surprise you with it. She wasn’t thrilled with me, but I don’t think she hated it that much.” 

“If she hated it, you would know.” Felix slides the hat and beard off Ricasso and lays the costume carefully on the front hall table. He gives her one last kiss on her adorably pink nose and releases her into the apartment, watching affectionately as she disappears into the kitchen. 

Sylvain’s never been a cat person, but he’s definitely a Felix-with-a-cat person. And Ricky has grown on him despite his best efforts, even if he still calls her “Felix’s cat” and not “our cat” to anyone who asks about her. Even if she hadn’t, he would love her just for the soft look she puts on Felix’s face. 

With the cat off attending to her own business, Sylvain turns to Felix to greet his boyfriend properly. Felix has just finished shrugging his coat off and hanging it on the wall, and he crosses his arms, eyeing Sylvain with a carefully measured expression Sylvain has come to associate with his more playful moods. 

“I can’t believe,” Felix says with affected disinterest, “that I got a kiss from my cat and not my boyfriend.” He gives Sylvain a sideways look, halfway between serious and teasing. 

Oh, so this is the game. “Your boyfriend sounds like an asshole,” Sylvain says. 

“How dare you,” Felix says, feigning offense even as his lips curve upwards. “I’ll have you know he’s solidly mediocre at worst.” 

Sylvain leans in with a grin. “Is he handsome, at least?” 

“He’s alright,” Felix replies, his eyes flickering tellingly down to Sylvain’s lips. “More handsome when he’s kissing me, though.” 

“I can’t imagine kissing you is much of a hardship,” Sylvain says, close enough now that their noses are almost touching. 

Felix loops his arms around Sylvain’s neck, cocking his head, eyes lidded. “You should try it and find out.” 

Sylvain closes the gap and presses his smiling lips to Felix’s. 

The kiss is a long, intimate one, but not particularly deep; Felix seems too tired from work to get too amorous, and Sylvain’s happy whenever he gets to touch Felix regardless of the nature of it. They finally separate, Felix breathing out a contented sigh against Sylvain’s lips, and Sylvain thinks, _I want to do this for the rest of my life._

He lets his eyes drift open to look at Felix’s face – the sharp jut of his cheekbones, the dark fan of his eyelashes, the light flush on his cheeks from their kiss. Sylvain cups Felix’s jaw in a gentle hand and thinks he could wake up to this face every morning and never tire of it. 

_I want to marry him._

The thought is both earth-shattering and unremarkable, both unexpected and inevitable. Like he’s been struck by a previously unseen truth that he’s also known his whole life, somewhere in the back of his mind, just waiting for him to turn around and recognize it. 

Part of him wants to blurt the question out immediately, but the rest of him is content in the knowledge that there isn’t any rush. It took them years to get where they are – years of pining, of yearning, of assuming what the other did and didn’t want. They drove their friends absolutely up the wall. Ingrid especially makes fun of them mercilessly, and Dimitri’s lack of protest when she teases indicates his agreement with the sentiment. 

Years of that, and every day, Sylvain still falls more in love with Felix. When he thinks about his future, he thinks of it with hope. There’s no rush. 

He’s been staring at Felix with a vacant, smitten expression for what must be an embarrassing amount of time, because Felix knocks on the side of his head with his knuckles. “Of all the things we’ve done, _that’s_ the one that breaks your brain?” 

“I love you,” Sylvain says helplessly. 

The color in Felix’s cheeks darkens. “I love you, too,” Felix says, more quietly but no less sincerely. He leans up to press one last chaste kiss to the corner of Sylvain’s mouth before he moves past Sylvain to put his work things away. 

“Sylvain,” comes Felix’s exasperated voice from the bedroom a few moments later. “Did you seriously get _peppermint scented soap?”_

He must be in the master bathroom freshening up. Sylvain laughs and calls back, “It’s festive!” 

“It’s useless,” Felix grumbles. 

“Wait til you see the wine cozies I got,” Sylvain replies. Felix makes another playful noise of disgust from down the hall. 

From the kitchen, Ricasso lets out one of her pitiful squeaks. Sylvain recognizes it as her hungry squeak. It’s a little early for her dinner, but she was a good sport about the Saint Macuil costume – Sylvain decides to oblige her, following her voice into the kitchen. Plus, he’s planning to marry her dad. That makes her his step-cat, and he wants his step-cat to like him. 

Sylvain is scooping Ricky’s wet food into her dish when Felix’s dry voice comes from the kitchen entrance. “You’re the reason she always thinks she’s going to get fed early. You’re spoiling her.” 

Sylvain lifts his head, a little startled. He hadn’t even heard Felix walking down the hall. He glances down at Felix’s feet and spies the ridiculous fuzzy socks Sylvain got him for his perpetually cold feet, and ah. That explains it. Those socks make absolutely no noise when Felix walks around in them. 

“She’s a beautiful lady,” Sylvain says, standing up to rinse the can out. “I always spoil beautiful ladies.” 

He doesn’t need to turn around to know that Felix is rolling his eyes when Felix says, “You’re ridiculous.” 

Sylvain glances over his shoulder with a grin. “Ridiculously handsome.” 

“You’re ridiculously _something,_ that’s for sure,” Felix says as he pads across the room in his stupid, adorable cat print socks. He wraps his arms around Sylvain’s waist and thumps his face against Sylvain’s back. 

Sylvain lays a hand on one of Felix’s clinging arms and closes his eyes with a smile. He’s long since finished rinsing out the can, but he thinks he’ll stand here awhile longer. 

* * *

**+1**

* * *

Sylvain’s been jittery all day. 

At first, Felix thinks it’s just because he’s nervous about hosting a Saturnalia gathering at their shared apartment. Sylvain is fussy about the apartment’s appearance on a regular day, let alone when visitors are coming. It stands to reason that he’d be worried, making sure everything is perfect. 

But it’s not just the decorations. It’s _everything._

Sylvain keeps fidgeting with the lights and tinsel, yes, but his behavior is bizarre in a way that can’t be explained purely by Saturnalia anxiety. He loses focus in the middle of adjusting things, staring into space with an expression Felix can’t parse. He jumps when Felix makes too loud or too sudden of a noise. He’s evasive whenever Felix asks him questions about his strange mood. 

This isn’t their first Saturnalia together. It’s not even their first Saturnalia in this apartment. Sylvain’s apprehension about the holiday vanished almost entirely when he moved out of his parents’ house, so Felix is at a complete loss. Is Miklan getting a parole hearing after all? No, Sylvain would have said something. Are his parents coming to this gathering, unbeknownst to Felix? But Sylvain deliberately never told his parents his new address, not wanting to put himself or Felix in that position. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Sylvain says when Felix asks, again and with thinning patience, what’s bothering him. He softens at what must be obvious frustration on Felix’s face. “Look, if something was bothering me, I’d tell you,” he says, running an affectionate knuckle across Felix’s cheekbone. “I promise. It’s nothing bad.” 

“So there _is_ something.” Felix levels him with a halfhearted glare, but Sylvain’s long past the days of lying so blatantly to Felix’s face about his pain. If Sylvain says it’s nothing bad, then it’s nothing bad. It doesn’t mean Felix likes having things hidden from him, but at least he’s not worried about Sylvain anymore. 

“There is something,” Sylvain allows with a smile so fond that Felix struggles to hold onto his irritation. 

They go about the rest of their day without incident, taking care of last minute preparations for their friends’ arrival at the apartment. Glenn calls twice, once to wish them a happy Saturnalia and again to remind Felix to call their poor father. 

Felix actually manages to forget about Sylvain’s nerves for the most part when people start arriving at the apartment. It sits in the back of his mind, but he gets swept up in a conversation with Annette and Mercedes about the sweets they baked for the occasion, and then Dedue is asking him about the succulent on their kitchen windowsill. Ashe and Ingrid pull him away to ask him if he read the book they lent him (he has, and he liked it much more than he’s letting on). 

Dimitri is the one who brings Sylvain’s odd behavior back to the forefront of Felix’s mind, though he’s sure it’s entirely unintentional on Dimitri’s part – he’s just terrible at keeping secrets, and whatever secret Sylvain is keeping, he’s clearly made the mistake of trusting Dimitri with it. Dimitri can’t stop fidgeting like an excited dog, glancing between Sylvain and Felix with a dopey smile on his face. He seems more excited than nervous, so Felix rests easy in the knowledge that Sylvain’s surprise is going to be a well-meaning one. 

It all comes to a head after gifts have been exchanged and everyone is sprawled on various pieces of living room furniture, fuzzy and warm with drinks and good company. Felix is tucked against Sylvain’s side, and he makes a noise of protest when Sylvain gets up, thinking Sylvain is just going to the bathroom or getting another drink. 

Sylvain slides off the couch and onto the floor in front of Felix. He’s on one knee. 

Felix stares down at him, and then glances at the rest of the room, like some part of him needs to make sure that this is actually happening. Annette and Ashe have their hands over their mouths. Mercedes is smiling. Ingrid has Dimitri’s hand in a white-knuckled grip, shaking it excitedly between them. Dedue, with one arm wrapped around Dimitri’s shoulders, nods shallowly at Felix when their eyes meet. 

“Felix,” Sylvain starts. His voice cracks. He’s _nervous._ Felix turns his head back to meet Sylvain’s eyes, his lips parting as Sylvain fishes a small box out of his pocket. “Felix,” Sylvain tries again, his voice a little smoother this time but still thick with emotion. 

There’s something Felix should be saying here, he’s sure. A reassurance. Some kind of encouragement. But when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. 

Thankfully, Sylvain gathers himself and continues. “I had so many things I was going to say,” Sylvain says with a helpless little laugh. “But they just… flew out of my head the moment I looked up at you and I realized you knew what I was going to ask.” 

Sylvain reaches up and takes one of Felix’s hands in his own, the other still cradling the little black box. “We’ve always been together,” Sylvain says, his gaze soft and unwavering. “Even when we were just kids, I knew you were special. I never wanted to leave you. Whenever you cried, I always wanted to be the one who wiped your tears away.” 

Even if it wasn’t a proper kiss, Felix still remembers that embarrassing Saturnalia convivium as the first time Sylvain ever kissed him – lips gentle on his cheek, brushing away what remained of his tears. 

“I still do,” Sylvain says, his thumb brushing across the back of Felix’s hand. “I always will. Whenever you cry, I promise I’ll be there to kiss your tears away.” His lips curve up into a wobbly smile. “I’ll walk a mile in the snow and the cold whenever you need me.” 

The first, long night of Glenn’s hospitalization – Felix still cradles that memory close to his heart. As traumatic as that night was, the sight of Sylvain in his doorway, the feeling of Sylvain holding him close and sheltering him at his most vulnerable, are memories Felix returns to when he needs strength. 

“That night you threw that rock through my window, I knew—” Sylvain stops and swallows, his eyes shiny with unshed tears. “I knew that you’d never let me go, no matter how stupid I was. You stayed with me at my worst, because you knew I could be better.” 

Felix isn’t in the habit of dwelling on might-have-beens, but he still thinks of that night with a mixture of fear and relief. Abandoning Sylvain, no matter how much Sylvain shoved him away, was never once a possibility in Felix’s mind, but it sometimes occurs to him just how close he came to losing Sylvain that night. He turns his hand over in Sylvain’s to squeeze their palms together. 

“I want…” Sylvain blinks rapidly, but some of the tears in his eyes spill over, catching on his eyelashes and dripping down his cheeks. “I want to catch you every time you fall, and I want to let you catch me, too. I want you to kiss it better whenever I make a dumb mistake, while you tell me off for being a fool.” 

Unbidden, Felix remembers the tumble they took on the ice a few years ago – the first time Felix thought maybe, just maybe, if he kissed Sylvain, Sylvain would kiss him back. As far as first real kisses go, it was an absurd and painful one, but Felix wouldn’t trade it for anything. 

“I want to come home to you every day for the rest of our lives,” Sylvain says. He’s crying openly now, smiling and helpless and overwhelmed, and Felix is sure his own face doesn’t look much better. “Felix… if you’ll have me, I… Will you marry me?” 

Felix still can’t find his words. But there’s only one possible answer to this question, and it’s one he thinks he’s known since he was a child and Sylvain kissed his tears away at the Saturnalia convivium. 

He tumbles off the couch and into Sylvain’s arms, nearly knocking him flat onto his back before Sylvain flings his arms around his waist and steadies him. There’s only one answer, and it’s been _yes_ since the moment they met. 

Felix kisses Sylvain, deep and desperate, trying to speak with his actions when emotion has taken his words from him. There’s noise from the rest of the room – cheering, laughter, a stray whistle. But all of it is distant, inconsequential, with Sylvain’s lips against his and the weight of the question Sylvain has asked him. 

Because it’s not just that Sylvain loves him. Felix has known that for years. It’s that Sylvain has put aside all those old fears and realized he can _have_ this, for the rest of their lives. He’s committing to a lifetime at Felix’s side. He’s allowing himself to be _happy._

“Yes,” Felix gasps out in the space between kisses. “Yes, you idiot, I’ll marry you, of course I’ll marry you.” 

“You didn’t even—” Sylvain breaks off in the middle of his sentence when Felix presses another frantic kiss to his lips. “You didn’t even see the ring.” 

“I don’t care about the ring,” Felix says, which is perhaps not the best thing he could have said when he’s sure Sylvain spent hours agonizing over it. “I care about what it means.” 

Sylvain makes a helpless noise deep in his throat and hauls Felix back in for another kiss. 

“Put the ring on him already!” someone calls. It sounds like Annette’s voice, bright and happy and thick with tears. 

Sylvain laughs against Felix’s lips and pulls back, one hand fumbling around on the floor beside him for the box he must have dropped when Felix pounced on him. Felix settles himself in Sylvain’s lap while Sylvain pops the box open. 

It’s simple. Austere. A weighty platinum band with subtle but intricate etchings winding around its surface. Blue fire opal is inlaid in some of the designs, offering a small wink of color. It’s unostentatious, unpretentious, but precious. Built to last. 

Felix places his hand into Sylvain’s palm and lets Sylvain slide the ring onto his finger. It fits him comfortably, a solid weight on his skin, and a fresh wave of tears stings behind Felix’s eyes. 

“We need to get you one, too,” Felix says as Sylvain brushes a thumb across Felix’s newly-adorned finger. 

Sylvain’s smile is blinding. He leans in to nudge his nose against Felix’s, openly affectionate. 

The moment is interrupted by the telltale honk of Dimitri blowing his nose. 

“Dimitri,” Dedue says, sounding almost disappointed. 

Felix, already full of more emotions than he knows what to do with, bursts out laughing. He drops his forehead onto Sylvain’s shoulder, which shakes with amusement as Sylvain tries to contain his own laughter. 

“He’s crying now,” Felix says, quiet enough that only Sylvain can hear him. “Wait until I tell him I want him to be my best man.” 

Sylvain bundles both his arms around Felix, one of his hands coming up to stroke through Felix’s hair. “He won’t stop crying for days.” 

Felix’s lips curve into a smile against Sylvain’s throat. They’ll need to disentangle eventually. Return to the party, and to the friends that helped them get here. But Felix doesn’t mind letting Sylvain hold him for just a little while longer. 

**Author's Note:**

> tag notes:  
> car accidents/hospitalization/permanent injury: glenn is hit by a car offscreen in section 2, and it results in his hospitalization. there are brief descriptions of blood/his body, but no details. he is on a ventilator in brief flashback scenes. he loses the use of his legs, but he survives and shows up in a later scene.
> 
> implied/referenced child abuse: this is just a general Gautier Family Warning. there are references throughout the fic to sylvain's childhood not being a particularly happy one, including mention of suspicion that miklan threw him into a lake in the wintertime. in section 3, some of the cruel, degrading things miklan says to sylvain are quoted, though the actual conversation is not depicted.
> 
> underage drinking: in section 3, 18-year-old sylvain drinks an irresponsible amount of alcohol to cope with severe emotional distress. (this is only underage in some areas, but either way, this is not a healthy thing for him to be doing.) the section is from his point of view, so it's all from the pov of a drunk character.
> 
> suicidal thoughts: these are minor and only touched on twice in section 3. sylvain makes a morbid joke about dying in his texts to felix, and later fantasizes about dying from the alcohol he's consumed. there are no active intentions or plans to commit suicide described.
> 
> i hope you enjoyed this fic! it was something of a labor of love, but i'm thrilled to report that i still love sylvix as much as i did a year ago


End file.
